


my north star

by cosmya



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Domestic, Gardens & Gardening, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Isolation, Lighthouses, M/M, Meet-Cute, Slow Romance, Wine, anachronistic 19th century dialogue, culinary therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22341469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmya/pseuds/cosmya
Summary: Off the rugged coast of Scotland, Aziraphale keeps a lighthouse, protecting ships from dangerous waters. His apprentices come and go like the tides, but when Crowley arrives, fresh off a prison sentence, a storm arises. If only it would never end.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 46





	1. salt

The ocean was eerily still save for the churn of the oars under Crowley’s shivery grip. He should’ve worn gloves. 

The island was only a hundred yards away, now, a hundred yards over opaque water turned oil-slick black by the setting sun. Up on a rocky crest stood the lighthouse. It looked like it had weathered more years than storms, as did the wooden shack next to it, where Crowley would be living until the world forgot what he had done.

There are few professions which befit a reformed criminal. Crowley disagreed with that term and both its constituent parts; he was neither a criminal nor reformed. Not that he was blind to his misdeeds. He seemed to be drawn to them like a moth to a flame, knowing that they would be his doom, but unable to resist the nature which made him so. He did know one thing. He was not  _ evil. _

Certainly not a bad person. He did good, sometimes, and sometimes, he even did good on purpose. But the nineteenth century hadn’t been treating him well so far, and he played by the golden rule. 

At least he wouldn’t be alone at the lighthouse, which was probably good, because he knew nothing about lighthouses and definitely couldn’t be trusted to prevent ships from certain demise. There was one permanent resident who remained, resolute, while his apprentices came and went. As Crowley rowed ever closer to the island, he thought on the degree of madness it must take to be a full-time lighthouse keeper on a desolate and little-traveled coast. It would, no doubt, be a long springtime with him. 

Closer to shore, the waves bouncing into the rocks sent the rowboat rocking back and forth, and the water splashing up onto Crowley’s sunglasses distorted his view of the jagged rocks ahead. It was about the time of dusk where he should be taking them off, but he preferred the safety of concealment, even if it meant sacrificing the safety of knowing where he was going. Shouldn’t there be a pier, or at least a landing, or at the  _ very _ least a rope to tie the rowboat up? What kind of island was this?

He was to find out soon, because he certainly wasn’t going to circle the place trying to find somewhere to land. It was likely that no such place existed, so this would have to do. Crowley braced himself to wiggle onto the rocks like a sea snake if necessary. He did not have the best balance.

This was not a good start; he gritted his teeth, finally giving into the fading light and pushing his sunglasses up to rest on his salt-waved crimson hair. Now that he could see, he saw that there was not much to see in the first place: there was no sign of the lighthouse-keeper. He hadn’t exactly been expecting a hero’s welcome, but if this harshness continued, he wouldn’t make it long. And then he would have to try much harder to abide by the law, and he didn’t think he could do that.

The boat crashed into a particularly sharp black rock with a sickening crunch and Crowley stood up, preparing for the leap to blessed dry land, when a voice called from above.

“Oh!”

Crowley nearly fell into the threatening sea. Up the rocks stood a man.  _ Now  _ he arrived, naturally. 

“You must be Crowley,” he said with a kind smile. He was of unguessable age, more stout than one would expect for someone who lived off only dried meat and salt, and dressed in soft cream, which somehow wasn’t stained at all despite the greasy work of keeping the gas light on. He looked more like a librarian. A future grandfather. The head of the local knitting club. Crowley didn’t reply to his assumption, because he was too busy being confused at how the lighthouse-keeper looked to be the least mad person in the world.

Gracefully, the man descended the sea-misted rocks to where Crowley had stranded himself. “Oh, look at you, you must be freezing,” he worried. “Let’s get you inside to the fire. And a hot cup of cocoa, I think.”

Crowley, still trying not to look too puzzled, nodded and grabbed his soaked rucksack from the bottom of the rowboat. “Can you…?”

“ _ Oh _ , of course. I’ll take that,” the lighthouse-keeper said. Crowley handed it to him and wondered what it would look like if he shoved a little too hard and the kindly man lost his footing. He felt a quiver of elation at the thought, and then felt suddenly seasick.

“Erm - are you alright?”

“Sorry,” Crowley croaked. He looked down, careful about his stance as the strengthening waves buffeted under his feet ever-harder. “What about the boat?”

“I’ll take care of it. Don’t you worry, dear boy.” Crowley had no idea what he meant by  _ take care of it _ , like there was some sort of dark witchcraft that allowed him mystical control over maritime vessels, and he resented being called a boy, even if it was prefaced as nicely as it was. He maintained that he was an old soul.

But it was the least he could do not to be rude, as this was their first day, and there was no use in pointlessly making their indefinite time together Hell. So he proffered a “sorry”, took the man’s outstretched hand (which was, unsurprisingly by this point, soft), stepped ashore, and promptly slipped. 

Before he was resigned to a bloody, wet doom, though, wool-clad arms wrapped around his reedy frame and caught him as one would a dancing partner in a ballroom number. This lighthouse-keeper was stronger than he looked, thought Crowley stupidly, and had saved him from those terrible slippery rocks. He looked up - there was something odd about the way he looked at Crowley, something mixed in with surprise - no, it was gone, gone before Crowley could hope to interpret it, replaced with embarrassment and its corresponding blush. 

Crowley took the hint that it was time to find his footing. “Sorry,” he said again, like it was his new replacement for real, English words, like  _ um _ or  _ er _ . 

“Never to worry about it,” the lighthouse-keeper replied, also seemingly unaware of his oddly arranged phrase. “Shall we go inside?”

“Please,” said Crowley. He was growing cold, and the promise of a fireplace and cocoa and hopefully, the warm and inanimate embrace of a blanket fueled him up the steep hill.

The island was eerily flat inside its claustrophobic diameter. The land had the barren appearance of windblown tundra despite its location five hundred miles south of the Arctic Circle. There was not much to look at, and even less if you didn’t like dark crashing waves and clouds stirring themselves into storms. And cream-clad, cherubic men hovering dreamily about the place like friendly phantoms.

“We’re just over here,” he said, leading Crowley to the only place they could possibly be heading for. “Oh,” he stopped quite suddenly, turning so that Crowley could see his genuine smile, “and I’m Aziraphale. So pleased to meet you.”

“Erm. You too.” 

They continued walking, but it was not exactly far; Aziraphale opened the squeaky-hinged door for Crowley, still grinning politely. Crowley muttered a thanks.

He’d expected a shack, but this was best described as a home. It was tiny, and the uncovered sections of wall were shabby, and the paint was peeling from the bookcases. But it was also, like the fire sputtering away in the stove, alive and warm, and seemed, though it pained Crowley to admit it, a lovely place to be cooped up in.

“It’s a bit cramped; I’m sorry,” apologized Aziraphale. “But it stays warmer that way. Let me show you upstairs. I’ll have dinner ready in an hour.”

Crowley nodded, still looking around at the maps and diagrams papering the walls, but the stairs were steep, and he decided that he would need to learn to focus if he was to endure his time here without significant injury or embarrassment. The upstairs room was even smaller than the main space, with nothing but two tiny beds pushed far apart on either sand-colored wall and a dusty window inset with iron diamonds to strengthen it against the blustery winds. It was much more bare up here.

“That’ll be yours,” gestured Aziraphale to the bed on their left. “Don’t worry, I’ve laundered the linens. Please, make yourself at home.”

“Thanks,” repeated Crowley. He was usually much better with words than this, but he was still somewhat stunned by the cold. He sat down as Aziraphale left to go back downstairs. The footsteps echoed and Crowley could hear a kettle being filled.

He was not used to this sort of hospitality. He had been so very wrong about this place. He would be killed not with boredom, nor anger, but kindness.


	2. sugar

The telltale signs of cooking - tempting aromas of sage and rosemary and the sizzle of oil on cast iron - called Crowley back downstairs before Aziraphale could. The lighthouse-keeper was standing at the butcher-block counter, knife in one hand, carrot in the other, gazing absentmindedly out the window, though there appeared to be nothing interesting going on past the glazing.

“What’s for dinner?” asked Crowley, interrupting his reverie.

Aziraphale jumped, though he certainly would’ve heard the thudding of Crowley’s boots down the stairs. He shook his head slightly and looked around, his expression one of manufactured serenity. “Lamb, an herbed potato mash, and sugar roasted carrots. Is that alright?”

Crowley had never been too particular about food. “‘Course. Fresh vegetables, though? In February?” he wondered, raising an eyebrow.

“I have a greenhouse. The meat was frozen, I’m afraid. I don’t have the stomach to keep my own livestock.”

“I’ll have to take marks off for that,” Crowley teased, depositing himself in one of the two ancient kitchen chairs, tipping it back to show that he was not at all nervous or uncomfortable. “So…” he trailed off, unable to guess what Aziraphale liked to talk about.

“I suppose you want to know what your duties will be. I take it you’ve never done this before.” He resumed his work.

“You could tell?”

“Well, you didn’t seem very familiar with a rowboat.”

Crowley snorted. “You’re going to have to get better at recognizing sarcasm, Aziraphale.”

There was an awkward silence, save the carrot decapitations. Perhaps Crowley was being too jabby too soon.

“You’re right, though,” he continued. “I don’t know the slightest bit about any of this.”

Aziraphale took a noticeably long time chopping the vegetables, which must’ve been diced into nothingness by now, and turned around, a faint smile on his lips. “You’re from London, I presume.”

“Mm. Soho.”

“Small world. I am as well, actually. Though I left the city as quickly as I could. The noise doesn’t suit me.”

“Don’t you get lonely out here, though?” asked Crowley before he could really consider how Aziraphale would answer, or if this was a route of conversation he himself really wished to go down.

Aziraphale turned away from Crowley and dumped the carrots into a teal enameled dish. “That’s what you’re for,” was his sprightly reply.

“So all I am is company? That’s certainly not what I signed up for.” The corner of Crowley’s mouth crept downwards. He preferred the noise of the city to the intimacy of silence.

“Not at all.” The lighthouse-keeper poured sugar into a saucepan. “And that brings us back to your duties.”

“Oh, jolly.”

“The main responsibility, of course, is ensuring nothing breaks during the day. Refilling the oil, greasing the gears, and whatever else the old girl asks for. There’s also the grounds, they need to be kept, oh, and repairing the assorted bits of the island that are always determined to break. Otherwise, you are free to do whatever you like.”

Crowley wasn’t much of a manual laborer, but this did explain how Aziraphale kept his garments so tidy, if he made the help do all of the difficult work. How he wanted to see that white sullied. “And what do you do?”

“I’m the night watch.”

“And during the day?”

“I sleep.” There was something funny in his tone. “This time of the year, the nights are long and the days are short. You’ll get plenty of rest.”

“So we don’t spend much time together at all.”

“Mealtimes. And if either of us can’t sleep.”

Surely Aziraphale didn’t sound hopeful over that. But he probably was, if only to have someone passing the time up in the cold, lonely lantern room. And cooking for two was much more rewarding than cooking for one.

Speaking of which, Crowley decided he wanted to encourage that particular hobby, because he had always wondered if he would like food more if it wasn’t prepared by himself or for enemies of the state. If it meant keeping Aziraphale company, then he would soldier on, at least for tonight. He got up from the table and chose a book at random from the ochre bookshelf by the door. The black woven cover was embossed in silver with  _ Ptolemy’s Constellations: A History. _

He smiled to himself at the serendipity. He had always liked the stars. Even felt a connection to them. No matter where he was, free or captive, he could always look to the sky, or at least at the ceiling, and know he wasn’t alone. They were very much like himself and his sunglasses: even when their light was obscured - by dark clouds or by dark glass - they were there, observing, beacons in the dark. That’s why Crowley wore the sunglasses in the first place. His eyes always gave him away, shedding too much light on everything, leaving nowhere for him to hide. He didn’t like that. He liked mystery.

What did that make constellations in his metaphor? He hadn’t figured that out yet. Maybe learning more about them would help. He sat back down at the table and stretched out, cracking the book open; the smell of old paper mingled with the cooking aroma and it made him delightfully dizzy. He easily became engrossed in the words to the sounds of the stove and Aziraphale washing dishes and the soft flickering light of the candles illuminating the cabin.

He had nearly finished the chapter on Centaurus when Aziraphale gingerly tapped him on the shoulder. “Crowley? Dinner’s ready. Can I bring you a plate?”

“Erm. Gladly.” Crowley regretfully placed the book face-down on the table, front and back covers spread wide like the wings of a seabird, resolved to come back to it later. 

Aziraphale scowled at the book, but set a chipped white plate laden with artistically arranged food in front of Crowley all the same. He took his place across the table, sliding over a pressed white napkin rolled to contain burnished silverware while unfurling his own identical one. The table was so small that their knees nearly touched.

“This is… elegant,” Crowley remarked.

It was hard to tell in the low, orange light, but Aziraphale may have blushed. “Cooking is a hobby of mine. It’s nice to have a bit of luxury even out in the wilderness. Don’t tell me you were hoping for beef jerky and stale bread.”

“No need to get so defensive,” retorted Crowley. “I’m not complaining.” Nor did he have any reason to, because the food was excellent; Aziraphale’s talent and passion showed. This was more befitting of a fine London restaurant than a twelve-by-twelve shack on an island only inhabited for the operation of a lonely lighthouse.

All the better for it, because savoring the meal saved Crowley from making conversation, and Aziraphale seemed pleased enough by Crowley’s enjoyment that he didn’t say anything either. When Crowley’s plate was cleared (which alone was unusual enough for him), Aziraphale stood and took it to be washed. “Did you like it?” he asked, as if he actually couldn’t tell.

“Clearly.” 

“Wonderful. Room for dessert?”

“You’re going to spoil me, Aziraphale.”

His smile was slightly devious. “I would do nothing of the sort. Here,” he said, handing Crowley a pastry, “please give me your truthful opinion. I tried a new way of folding the dough; I added more layers, if I’m lucky. Stay unbiased here, if you please.”

“What could my bias possibly be towards you? We met, what, two hours ago?” Crowley knew he was starting to push buttons, but he couldn’t stop that instinct for the lighthouse-keeper, even if he was overwhelmingly sweet and just cooked him a fantastic dinner.

“I don’t know. You have an odd look on your face.”

Did he? Crowley snorted to draw attention away from whatever might  _ actually _ be happening, because he surely didn’t know what it was, took a bite of the pastry, and melted into bliss. Perfect flaky layers, smooth sweet custard, the ideal amount of icing sugar on top.

“It’s pretty good,” he managed, mouth still full.

“Oh, I know you’re underestimating,” Aziraphale replied mischievously. So he liked compliments, did he? “They’re in the breadbox if you want more. Now, I’ve already dallied too long, it’s pitch black out there and I need to assume my post. Have a good night, Crowley.”


	3. strawberry

Crowley swallowed his bite of pastry quizzically as Aziraphale darted outside. He stood, grabbed another one from where he’d been told they were stowed, and headed back upstairs, sleepy from the meal.

He consumed the pastry as one would if they had stolen them, shoving more and more into his mouth without swallowing, then almost choking as he ascended the stairs. With the candles unlit, the bedroom was dark, but Crowley didn’t bother lighting them; he simply pulled off his boots and dropped down on the tiny bed. He drew the fluffy covers over himself and closed his eyes. The sound of the waves was louder in here than downstairs, and the tiny sliver of moon outside the dusty window provided almost total darkness in which to sleep. The only thing filling the room, and practically bursting out the sides of it, were Crowley’s thoughts.

You would think he would be better at this, this meditation, this suppression of worry and confusion and desire that sleep both begs and begets, considering his long time alone over the past few years. Being asleep was never a problem once he managed it; it was always difficult to rouse him from that blissful place. But he was so out of his element on the island. Too comfortable, too safe, for even the bed, which by all accounts should have been little more than a hard cot, seemed at least the quality of his bed back home, if he could remember home by this point. 

Truthfully, he knew he was being spoiled, and he could not help but be suspicious of it.

Aziraphale was a strange one. Crowley didn’t trust him, and likely never would. What concerned Crowley the most was the attrition rate of his previous assistants. The fellow at the halfway house that had placed Crowley here had informed him about it with a smirk, as if to remind Crowley that although the prison sentence was up, his punishment was far from over. 

Why, though? He ran through several possibilities. Would he be collecting fresh oil from the cellar and find a stash of human bones? Would he mysteriously come down with a debilitating illness? Would the isolation and the storms drive him mad?

The last one was fairly likely, he knew; Crowley was more susceptible to outside forces than he liked to admit outwardly, but at this point, denying it to himself was a lost cause. There was simply not enough of those outside forces here to keep him busy. Books were hostile company after long enough, and Aziraphale probably would be too.

It was an hour later when Crowley gave up his losing battle with wakefulness. He sat up and sighed. The waves were getting annoying, wouldn’t they stop? 

As there was really only one thing to do here, reading himself exhausted would have to do. He scrabbled around in the drawer of the bedside table, searching for matches. It was, for lack of a better word, full of junk. Aziraphale must’ve only been prim and tidy when others could see.

Crowley’s hand happened upon the unmistakable shape of a book. This one was new-feeling, without the embossed text of the academic tomes downstairs. Was this what Aziraphale liked to fall asleep to? Crowley bit his tongue, mischief slipping through his clouded mind. Perhaps this would provide some illumination into the truth of his mysterious host.

He found the matches and, one by one, lit the candles lining the walls, wondering whether Aziraphale would notice that he was up, or else slept with the lights on.

The book’s cover was purest white. Crowley sat back down and opened it.

_ January 1st, 1846 _

_ Dinner: turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, spotted dick. Fed leftovers to seabirds. _

_ Weather: frigid and sunny after a cloudy dawn _

_ No ships spotted due to holiday. _

_ So begins a new year. I have high hopes for Eden; the lighthouse is in better condition than ever and I am being sent new seeds for the greenhouse (turnip and pear). I am, however, quite alone, and all of my wishes will be dashed if Gabriel does not find me help soon. Still, it is a day worth celebrating, and befitting of wine. Just a glass, I think, and I will save the good stuff for when it is warranted. No use in drinking much alone. _

The page continued, but Crowley wasn’t interested in reading Aziraphale whining any more. He flipped ahead.

_ February 11th, 1846 _

_ Dinner: pumpkin soup and sourdough, poached pears _

_ Weather: the uncomfortable warmth that precedes snow _

_ One ship, far in the distance. _

_ He is gone. He is gone, and I cannot pretend it is not my fault. He called me “smothering”. I will not, nay, cannot, print his further accusations. My guilt is overwhelming. _

Crowley’s brows furrowed. This was much more worthy of his attention. What could Aziraphale, sweet, kindly, blandly innocent Aziraphale, have done to drive this man away? It had to have been bad; he lasted, what, a month? It was clear from Aziraphale’s words that it was not the sea or the isolation that drove one away first. A morbid curiosity made Crowley want to draw upon his deep reserves of rudeness and ask, but he would probably find out soon enough anyway. Hungry for more clues, he skipped to the end. This page was nearly blank.

_ February 17th, 1846 _

_ The next one comes tomorrow. Gabriel says he will be different. _

Here it was, the 18th of February, and Crowley was “different”, eh? That might mean a lot of things. But one was certain - Aziraphale knew nothing of his past, and Crowley found that he liked that. The thought of Aziraphale idling, watching, in that lighthouse wondering about him filled Crowley with a strange mixture of satisfaction and trepidation. Soon, though, he became tired of considering every possibility running through his host’s mind, and the ache in his muscles from rowing the measly couple hundred yards from the ship to the shore overcame his restlessness. He fell asleep with the candles still lit.

* * *

He woke when the light from outside overcame that from inside the room. He was not hungry. A large glass of water had been placed on the bedside table; Crowley rolled over and grabbed it hastily, drinking recklessly so that the water dripped down his chin and drops blossomed on the bedsheets. He felt more awake than he had in years.

He leapt downstairs to find Aziraphale sipping tea at the kitchen table and writing furiously in the white journal. Crowley tried not to blush. He thought he had put it back last night, but could also vaguely remember pulling it back out and reading with great scrupulousness every single page. Their muddled remembered contents made him think it must have been a dream. 

“Morning,” he greeted Aziraphale.

“Good morning,” he returned, apparently unperturbed by Crowley’s presence during his scrawling.

“What are you writing?” asked Crowley cautiously, testing the waters.

Aziraphale dotted a period and shut the journal. “A captain’s log of sorts. It helps my memory through the long winter, you know. If anything of note happens, I have record of it, though most often it does not.”

“Very wise of you.”

Aziraphale stood and smiled, sliding off the tiny golden reading glasses Crowley had just noticed he had been wearing. “I thought we would start with something fun today. I would like to construct new flowerbeds in the greenhouse. It’s not food, of course, but it brightens up the place having a vase of fresh flowers every so often.” He looked thrilled about this prospect.

“You’re not going to sleep?”

“Maybe later,” Aziraphale replied, rushed.

“Alright,” said Crowley slowly, trying not to sound suspicious, though he certainly was. “Where’s the greenhouse?”

Aziraphale rubbed his hands together excitedly and led Crowley out the door, behind the cabin down a twisty cobblestone path. It seemed to have been constructed by many different people, each successive one, having seen the handiwork completed before him, thinking he could do much better.

The greenhouse itself was shabby, too. The iron framing was beginning to rust and the glass was so misted that the inside looked an indecipherable mass of green and, to Crowley’s concern, brown. Aziraphale, however, looked proud as he swung open the door. “Welcome, Crowley.”

Crowley gave him an odd look that was quickly stifled by the earthy steam hitting his face, and stepped inside.

It was if Crowley had been transported back in time. Back before all of the madness had happened that had caused his memories of the good times to fade. It was a meager sight, that was undeniable. The plants were all on the small side and had a distressing number of black-rimmed holes and yellowed leaves. Yet Crowley could tell it was not for lack of care.

“What do you think?” asked Aziraphale, spotting Crowley’s expression, which was determinedly different from the aloof boredom he had been constructing when he was around Aziraphale.

“I can work with this.” His voice sounded rather dazed.

“Work with it?”

“Erm.” Crowley swallowed, trying to buy himself a way out of this honesty hole he was digging deep into. “I used to keep plants. Just a few. Potted ones. Erm. I was just thinking maybe I can help you… spruce them up a bit.” He waved his hands in a sprucing motion.

“Oh, a green thumb!” said Aziraphale. “That would be entirely appreciated. I’m much better with them after they’ve been harvested, you know.”

“I’m not a miracle worker,” spat Crowley suddenly, as if he couldn’t bear to have Aziraphale thinking highly of him. 

“I don’t think it will come to that. Here, most of the supplies for the new flower beds are there on the left. I’ll go and find you some gloves.”

He left Crowley alone in the greenhouse. Crowley glared at the strawberry bush nearest him, who was sporting several drooping stems and three measly berries. “You’re pitiful,” he said.


End file.
